Dreams Manifest
by kebzero
Summary: The wars may be over, but Heero finds himself in an internal battle against and over his heart. 1? story, 1R and 12 mentioned


  
**Dreams Manifest**   
  
_Contents/Warnings:_ Angst, more angst, tiniest hints at violence/bloodshed. Did I mention possible angst?   
_Disclaimer:_ As slavery is abolished, I don't own Heero - or anything else from the Gundam Wing universe, for that matter.   
_Pairing:_ 1+? story ( you choose the '?' character ), though 1+R and 1+2 are both briefly mentioned.   
  
  
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_I love you._

As every night, the simple words hit him with full force, causing the dream to end, waking him to a mild state of shock. His wide open disbelieving eyes caught the sight of the all too familiar patchwork of the ceiling. He was awake. The reoccurring dream - no, _nightmare_ - had passed. Again. Closing his eyes, he calmed himself down, by sheer force of will slowing down breathing and heart rate. For weeks, it had been the same procedure. The nightmare returned, always so blank and void, yet reaching exactly that one vulnerable spot he tried to hide from the world outside. Against his own subconscious he was failing, and failure is hard to bear for a perfectionist. In a far corner of his mind, a mantra kicked in. Closing his eyes, he focused all thought on that; _I am Heero Yuy. I do not succumb to my emotions, I control _them_, not they me._ As it was, Heero knew all too well the fallacy of that statement. 

The dream was always the same. Someone talked to him, telling him with careful, yet stumbling words exactly what he _wanted_ to hear - but he didn't know who. The dream person was like a ghost - in plain sight, but invisible. The voice was well-known too, but he couldn't place it, tag it with an owner. The person was as anonymous as could be - even such a base thing as gender was indeterminable once he woke up. Heero was - as every time he woke up from the nightmare - convinced he had seen every detail of the dream. However, also as every time before, he couldn't remember, no matter how hard he tried. Another few minutes passed before he became aware of how his entire body was soaked in sweat under the tangled blanket. _Weakness._ Gritting his teeth and forcing his eyes open, he flipped the blanket aside and got up. 

------- 

Once in the bathroom, he shed his damp, nightmare-ridden tank top and boxers, and stepped into the shower. He turned on the water; hot, piercing. He put his palms against the ceramic tile wall, head downcast, tried to relax as the water danced across his back. Arching his head back, he let the warm droplets pour down on and through his already moist and tousled hair. The hot spray washed across his face, his arms, his chest - everywhere. The searing heat and high pressure of the water would have bothered others, perhaps caused pain or mild burns. Not Heero. He wanted it that way, wanted the water to wash away all traces of the dream, peel away the fictitious layer. It would do a decent job on removing physical clues, but it could do next to nothing with the mental processes the nightmares triggered. 

In his head, he heard the three little words over and over again. _'I love you'._ The voice, that unplaceable, ghostly voice had said it. Worse, Heero found himself _wanting_ to be told it, wanting to believe someone out there could say it, _mean_ it. _Weakness._ With closed eyes, he slammed his fist audibly against the tile wall, shattering several of the white ceramic squares. Slowly opening his eyes to see what he had done, he dimly felt his nerves sending impulses of pain up along his arm. He pulled his hand away, causing even more ceramic splinters to fall from the wall, landing by his feet with splashes. The fist was covered with blood seeping from several small cuts. Heero turned off the shower, stepped out, grabbed a nearby towel and wrapped it quickly around his waist. In one of the cabinets by the sink, he found a small first-aid kit and started cleaning the tiny scratch wounds on his hand. _Why do I even bother?_ he thought. _The cuts are already closing, the pain too weak to notice. Antiseptics are unnecessary. I was - am - Dr. J's walking, talking experimental superhuman, after all. I do not bother with this sort of hurt - _any_ sort of hurt. I _endure_._ He cleared off the antiseptics and slowly drying blood, studied the damage. The cuts were hardly noticeable, no more than light scratches across the skin. _Good. Fewer questions that way._

He glared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Facing his own cold pools of blue, seeing the thin lines of red across both black, blue and white, one corner of his mind suddenly realized what his former allies, his... _friends?_ - had meant when they jested how his gaze alone could kill. Beneath the messy, wet bangs, the reflected face turned into a frown. The dream had re-entered his thoughts. _Why would anyone want _me_?_ some distant section of consciousness asked. It took a great deal of mental effort not to lash out against the mirror. Heero wanted to shatter it, by glare or fist, no matter. He just wanted to remove that image of himself, something that could be as fragile and delicate as the ceramic tiles he had crushed. _I control my emotions,_ he repeated to himself. Satisfied with the treatment of the fist, he dried himself off and sought out clean clothes. 

------- 

The breakfast was anything but enjoyable - not that Heero ever put much effort in his cooking. _Food is fuel is food._ The other pilots had joked that he had no taste buds, and that that was how he could endure on the dry, dreary rations he tended to pack. It wasn't true, of course. He had just learned to control and subdue those nerves as any other - not that the current meal tasted anything in the first place; the toast acted like a sponge, drying his mouth. The eggs glared at him like squishy, bloodshot eyes, and the bacon strips had been in the pan for far too long, nearly turning them into crisp bits of charcoal. The only thing that tasted _anything_, was the coffee - That is, as if it had been filtered through a pair of dirty socks - or worse - and 'sweetened' with bits of freshly flattened road kill. Still, it was all he had to wash down the rest with. _Food is fuel is food._

The sad state of the meal wasn't merely a reflection of his cooking skills. During the preparation - or lack thereof - of the meal, his mind was as absent as it was now, completely preoccupied with the reoccurring dream. The anonymity of the dream character was infuriating, unbearable. No matter how hard he tried, no details whatsoever would come to him. He took another bite of the toast, choked, gulped down some of the coffee, sour taste nearly making him gag. He rapidly put down the cup. Luckily, he didn't spill any. The much too soft eggs looked up at him from the platter. Stabbing it with the fork, Heero watched as the still liquid yolk seeped out. That was it. _No breakfast today,_ he decided, and let the fork drop to the plate with a loud clang. He'd just stop by the cafeteria in the office lobby for some candy bars or suchlike instead. 

Closing his eyes, he let his thoughts wander over the 'list of suspects' to fill the central role of his sleepless night. It was a much greater list than he cared to admit, as it could be virtually anyone - however, he felt sure it was someone he _knew_, at the very least. So, who could it be? Who had ever shown even the slightest interest in him, tried to get close to him, attempted to make him lower his defenses, hoped to expose the vulnerabilities of a soft heart? Who could possib- _Relena._ Indeed, she was a prime candidate for the role. She had shown an interest, all right - sometimes one bordering on the brim of being uncanny. At first, he had pushed her away, too busy with the war effort to permit any 'distractions' from the cause. Later, because it felt inappropriate, or... _scary_? No, he didn't know fear. Nothing should cause such uncertainty, least of all regrets over choices past. She hadn't pursued him since the first war ended, however. If anything, _he_ had monitored _her_ movements. _Part of my work,_ he rationalized. Still, could that be it - did he _miss_ the near obsessive attention Relena had once shown for him? Was that what was triggering the empty dreams? He shook his head in frustration, trying to break free from the thoughts. It was by far time to head for work, lest he be late - and _that_ would be truly unthinkable. 

------- 

It had been nearly six months since the Mariemeia conflict ended; the final major war _ever_, if things went as the do-gooders and dreamers hoped for. In reality, the Preventers were busier than ever, putting out a near-infinite number of brushfires or glowing embers long before they could flare up to a full-scale or even limited war. Lady Une had offered Heero a position as a field operative shortly after the 'war to end all wars'. He had been appreciative, but had first declined, citing a vow he had made; he would never kill again, something a field operative would undoubtedly have to, sooner or later. She had then offered him a desk job; information gathering and analysis. Not as exciting, perhaps, but it was a fine job, with a decent wage - and Heero was good at it. Of course, he occasionally strayed beyond official or completely legal channels to get the information he sought, but both Lady Une and, in turn, the government, looked the other way on this. They needed stability, order and peace more than absolute justice for the more shady elements of society. 

Now, work proved a good distraction from the haunting nightmares. Burying himself in paperwork, keeping his mind occupied with the movements and actions of hundreds of potentially dangerous key people or organizations, trying to determine if any demanded close attention or immediate action, or perhaps dismissal from the field of vision of the watchful eye of the Preventers. It worked. For hours, the workload filled every available synapse of his brain. Nothing disturbed his frantic shuffling of papers, restless scribbling on notepads, rapid, rabid typing on the infamous laptop, one of his few mementos from the war - until someone broke the monotony by knocking at the wooden door of his small corner office. 

"Yes?", he burst out, not looking up from the document he currently examined. 

The silvery gray handle lowered slowly, and the door creaked open. Lady Une stepped in, and as she closed the door behind her, she asked "Mr. Yuy, is everything okay?" 

Eyes not leaving the paper, he answered "Yes. Why? Has my performance record worsened?" 

Lady Une let a slight sigh go, walked over to Heero's desk and sat down, facing Heero, in the lonely chair designated for guests - rare to this office though they were. She looked at him across the desk, expression more saddened than upset - not that Heero noticed, still reviewing the document as he was. 

"Rather the contrary. You have been working a considerable number of hours of overtime in the past few weeks - yet you haven't listed them for payment." 

"How did you-" 

"Mr. Yuy - Heero - I might rely on you and other agents as my eyes and ears to the darkest corners of Earth and space, but I can still see what goes on in this office. A quick check with the security logs at the door confirmed my suspicions of your... diligence... as of late. So, why do you work extra hours without pay? Is there anything troubling you?" 

"No," came the abrupt, snappish reply. Fingers unconsciously crumpled the document. 

"Heero - Heero, look at me. Put away that paper, and _look_ at me." Compliance. "Study this face. Do I look stupid? Gullible? I might not be empathic or possess the best of people skills, but I can _certainly_ tell when someone lies to me this blatantly." 

Folding his hands over the paper in an effort to stop the sudden slight shakes moving them - successfully, of course - he met Lady Une's eyes, saw how they demanded an answer. _Avoidance._ Heero fixed his eyes at the far right corner of his desk where a half-eaten candy bar from his improvised breakfast was melting, not wanting to look the Lady straight in the face. "No, I do not consider you stupid or gullible. I've just had trouble sleeping lately, that's all." 

Relaxed, if not even a bit surprised, she tilted her head, tried to regain eye contact. "So, there _is_ something troubling you? Want to talk about it?" Getting no answer, she leaned forward, cupping Heero's folded hands in her own. The move at least brought the pools of blue in direct line of sight again. "I know that I'm not someone you'd want to talk to about anything personal, considering I have tried to kill you in the past. I won't suggest you talk to any therapist either, as I suspect you'd never go - but if there's something bothering you enough to lose two weeks worth of sleep - can't you find _someone_ you could trust with - with - whatever it is? Miss Darlian perhaps, or one of the pilots, or-" She cut herself off mid-sentence, glaring down on their hands. Unconsciously, she had let her fingers paint small, soothing circles on Heero's hands, much in the same way she calmed or comforted her adopted daughter during times of distress. Now, those same sensitive fingers had come across something else. The scars. She took the damaged hand closer, inspected the tiny, dark red lines. "You've cut your hand," she stated matter-of-factly. "And recently, too." 

Heero pulled his hand back, folded his arms and gazed to his left, out the single tiny window of the room. 

"Heero, I know this is none of my business, but I'm worried about you. You've always been private - silent, even reclusive. I've always respected that. I don't know what your troubles are, but please, take my advice. Talk to someone. There's nothing more painful than suffering in solitude and silence. Trust me on that." She could see she wouldn't get an answer this time either. Slowly, she stood up, and walked to the door. Fingers on the handle, she turned, saying "If you want, take some time off. Talk to someone, find out what is troubling you, or _why_ it's troubling you - I can't imagine what can affect you like this, Heero, and I understand you do not yet wish to entrust me with the inner workings of that brilliant mind of yours. Though I appreciate your dedication and effort, I don't want to lose _you_ for it." Still, no reply. "Please, talk to _someone_," she reiterated, and slipped out the door. 

For a moment, he closed his eyes. _Perhaps that _is_ what the nightmares are trying to tell me - _talk_ to someone - _any_one..._ But who? If dreams are but the construct of the hidden desires locked away in the subconscious, who was the secretive part of his mind trying to suggest? And why? 

He didn't feel like mentioning this to any of those even remotely close to him - not when any of them could turn out to be the unknown character. For all he knew, it could be Lady Une, hence his avoidance of her inquiries. A visit to a shrink wasn't tempting either, Lady Une had been right about him never willingly going to such a therapist. Pouring his heart, mind and soul out for a complete stranger to investigate and judge? No thanks. The more he thought about it, the more he disliked Lady Une's proposal. He didn't want to bother Relena with this - they hadn't spoken in months, and contacting her for _this_ would be unfair, most things considered. Besides, she would undoubtedly decide the dream character was her - and Heero felt too much doubt still to jump to such a conclusion. It felt too quick and easy a solution. Who else could he talk to? The other pilots? 

Wufei wouldn't take kindly to this form of weakness - a mere mental qualm. Heero could already hear him lecture on the virtues of mediation, how he should calm and control his mind and spirit - and dreams - through such means. Heero crossed Wufei off of his mental list of possible confidants, but made a side note to try mediation anyway. The rest might do him good. 

Quatre, then. Yes, Quatre would certainly listen to his tale of nightly sufferings. The former Sandrock pilot might even offer friendly advice on how to tackle the problem, and not simply offer the therapeutic methods _he_ deemed most satisfying; tea or soothing music. However, Quatre would also take that suffering to his own heart, share the pain - and if he should be unable to help, he'd feel guilty over it. Heero didn't want that. The nightmares were _his_; he did not want to subject others to that, least of all impressionable Quatre. 

Next on the list was Trowa. Yes, Trowa would be a good listener, but could he ever expect a reply? For as long as he had known him, the tall man had been, if possible, even more recluse than himself. Trowa had asked _him_ for advice once, and actions taken based on that advice had been nearly fatal. No, Trowa was probably not the one to talk to. 

That left Duo amongst the pilots. Question was, would Heero ever get a chance to _speak_ in the first place? And would Duo be able to keep anything Heero told a secret? Once Duo got going, there was little to stop the random chatter. No amount of requests, orders or pleas had been successful in the past. Perhaps the only way was to keep that hyperactive set of jaw, tongue and lips preoccupied with other things, like eating, or kissing, or- 

Heero derailed his own train of thought. _Where did _that_ come from?_ At first, he surprised himself by feeling no aversion to the idea. He wouldn't deny that the other pilot was handsome, but he had never _consciously_ thought about it - until now. Sure, Duo had been the one of the four other pilots he had by far befriended the most, and Duo had been nearly as persistent as Relena in the pursuit of their friendship. _I didn't miss anything, did I?_ Yes, Duo might indeed be the demon haunting him in his nightmares. Heck, once that floodgate was open, it could by _any_ of the pilots, or someone he'd barely met once. The nightmares had given no clues, it was always the same blank image of a _person_ - gender, age, clothes - indeterminable. For all he remembered it could have been a Venus-statue sans head and arms. Regardless, he couldn't well talk to Duo about this - and definitely not now that this strange, new view of the little imp had entered his mind. It would take some time to process, and he certainly wouldn't want to talk to Duo until he had sorted that out with himself. 

It would take hours before the mental sidetracking caused by Lady Une's visit was displaced by the mechanical routines of work again, but Heero was determined to refocus on just that. Unfortunately, he soon realized it is when you _try_ to forget something you remember and think of it most. Even so, he eventually managed. 

------- 

It was far beyond lunchtime before he again became aware of the passage of time. The regular workday was drawing to a close, but Heero had neither desire nor intent to go home when he at last stepped out of his office. Instead, he headed for the cafeteria in the lobby, hoping to get some substitute for a combined lunch-and-dinner meal before the cafeteria closed for the day. Mission completed, he lurked back to his office, carefully avoiding co-workers and the lady boss. No point announcing his intent of working unreported overtime. Again. 

------- 

It was late in the evening when a surprised janitor walked into his office, and found him sprawled out over his desk, sleeping. The janitor had awakened him by merely _approaching_, probably intending to shake him awake. Some skills were just too hardwired in; sleeping lightly and remaining alert even when asleep was one. Heero didn't know whether to curse or bless the janitor's intrusion - he had fallen asleep, and not yet dreamt anything he could recall. He knew, however, that the nightmare bit would arrive soon enough; usually when he was at his deepest level of sleep. Urged by the startled workman to return home to get some _real_ rest, Heero made his way back to his sterile, lonely apartment. He had never bothered much with décor. The walls held no paintings of photos, the few shelves carried even fewer objects. His wardrobe consisted of virtually nothing; mostly the same outfits in a few duplicates, as to ease the laundry cycle. There was no need to look in the fridge to determine that was as barren as the walls, shelves and closets. _Frills._

Heero had lost all track of time, he figured it had to be past midnight, at the very least. The strain on his eyes was becoming noticeable, his feet felt like he was wearing shoes of concrete as he staggered forward, and his mind was blurred. Suppressing a yawn, he sat down on his bed, flipped off his shoes. Failing to suppress another yawn, he hit the mattress still fully clothed, and with the slightest touch of fear he let sleep claim him. 

------- 

The first parts of the nightly dream sessions were never really a problem. They were the true mishmash of memories, events of the day, ideas, places, thoughts, people and things all semi-randomly jumbled up in an incoherent and senseless mess by the subconscious. Those were hardly ever remembered beyond the moment he awoke, if even then. Of the many images dancing in front of his mind's eye were one of a giant Relena using a beam scythe to cut down a tall conifer tree, one that upon impact to the ground turned into his work desk and a vast stack of documents. The dream jumped, he sat at the desk, buried in work, as had often been the case in reality as of late. Then, the wooden door was kicked off of its hinges, brutal kick shattering it, and in stepped a Lady Une dressed in a full camouflage outfit, heavy boots crunching the splinters of the door. She was armed to the teeth - quite literally, one hand held a huge submachine gun, the other used a knife to pick the teeth on the opposite side of where a cigarette was hazing her face from Heero's view. If this was an image he'd ever seen in real life, he was confident he would have remembered. 

"I've got something for you," she said. Wait, that wasn't Lady Une's voice. From behind the commando boss stepped Mariemeia, one hand waving a piece of paper. The young girl smiled broader than the sun as she skipped over to Heero's desk, and promptly slammed the paper to the woodwork. It was a drawing. A drawing of a gundam. The resemblance to Wing Zero was eerie, especially when the drawing came to life, turned, pointed its beam cannon at the spot between the onlooker's eyes, and fired. _They once said anyone who sees a gundam, dies._ Was the fate of the pilots any better? In so many ways he felt dead already. 

Blinded by the beam flash, Heero saw nothing but white. When his mind's eye cleared, he knew all too well where he was - at least in the sequence of dreams. In the morning, he would probably not recall the dreams up until this point, but what would transpire next, was bound to etch itself in his memory, as it did every night, and as every night, he would never remember any details - if he could even observe any as he dreamt them. His eyes were downcast, studying the opened newspaper and coffee cup at the mosaic stone table in front of him. Heero closed his eyes, trying to _hear_ anything that could give a clue. Nothing. All was silence. His fingers grazed across the surface on which he was seated. Soft leather. Opening his eyes, he saw it was a couch - a corner couch, and he was sitting in the corner, facing one sharp edge of the hypnotically patterned table, balancing the coffee cup on a small dish a the very corner tip of the table. He saw the paper, but couldn't read anything in it - there were letters, images, words, sentences, he was convinced of it. However, none of it made sense. There was no recognizable title or date on the paper. That was when he first heard something. A voice. _The_ voice. 

"Hi, Heero," it said, still far too ambiguous for his mind to recognize. Looking in the direction from whence the voice came, he saw... _someone_. The ghostly apparition revealed no clues of its form, however. All he knew, was that this was someone he _knew_, someone that obviously triggered _something_ deep within him, something he would not admit while awake. _Weakness._ Why couldn't he see the person, remember whoever it was? Or did he already know, yet not yet realize it? Then came the words; the words that always awoke him to face sweaty clothes and sheets, sleeplessness, dreadfully early mornings, and loneliness. 

"I love you." 

Tonight was no exception. His eyes flew open, and as they adjusted to the darkness of the bedroom, he saw the contours of the pillow his chin rested on. The room felt far too hot. His mind started working again, and he remembered he was still fully clothed. He still felt dead tired, rest once again interrupted by the nightmare of indecision, insecurity and incompleteness. He flipped around, facing the other wall of the bedroom, turning away from the door. This early morning, he would not flee to the bathroom, or to the kitchen. Or to work. Instead, he wanted to rest. Not sleep, _rest_. _I am Heero Yuy. I do not succumb to my emotions, I control _them_, not they me._ He closed his eyes, cleared his mind, applying all he had picked up of meditation and body control techniques over the years. Heartbeat and breathing slowed, his mind slipped into a drunken haze of nothingness - And it felt _good._

------- 

It was past noon when he left the shelter of the self-imposed trance, but it was worth it. His body had gotten much-needed rest, and his mind felt lighter - though he knew the nightmarish dreams would continue until he figured out who the unknown character was. After a moment of hesitation sitting on the edge of the bed, he got up, wanting to shed the dirty, sweaty and crumpled clothes, get a decent breakfast and face the new day - even if it was technically half passed already. 

That morning - or rather, early afternoon - turned out to be the best he had had in weeks. He was neither tired nor grumpy. The improvised breakfast he'd made with whatever was left in the fridge and cupboards, didn't taste so bad, either. The dream had been suppressed a bit, but the frustration was still there. Eventually, he decided to go down to the office today too, even if regular work hours were almost done. If nothing else, he could straighten out the oddities of his recorded work hours - the disparity between official and unofficial ones - with the lady boss - or bossy lady, depending on whatever mood she would be in today. Heero silently prayed it would be as least a good one as it had been yesterday. 

------- 

The meeting had proceeded quickly. Though Lady Une never said anything about it, never asked, it was clear she thought Heero had talked to someone about his problems, since he hadn't been in all morning - something that had never before occurred. They had settled the issue over payment for the extra hours Heero had put in. Lady Une had given him a strict warning to cap the number of extra hours for the future. She did not need a workaholic on her staff. With a nod, Heero had left. Now he sat in the lobby cafeteria, a small pastry and a cup of coffee in front of him, preparing to head home, preparing to face that sterile apartment again. For once not comfortable with the idea, he contemplated stopping by some shop or another, should an antique dealer or furniture store still be up, or perhaps go shop some groceries for future _proper_ meals. Or just walk around. With another sip, he decided he'd take a 'scenic route' home, despite the light rain shower that had just begun. He was in absolutely no hurry to get home, and the water wouldn't bother him much. Any cold would find it difficult to settle within him, and if one did, it'd merely serve as a distraction from his nightmares. 

Outside the large windows of the lobby, the little droplets from the skies hit the pavement with an almost cheerful sound. There was no wind, just the light, almost warm rain of late spring. No, he wouldn't catch a cold in _that_ weather, even if he tried. As his fingers grazed across the fabric of the couch he was sitting on, he put the coffee cup down. _Soft leather._ He looked down at his hand, at the couch, around in the lobby. _So, _this_ is where my subconscious picked the setting from?_ he thought, smiling faintly. However, there were discrepancies. The table was of solid oak, the couch wasn't a corner type, just a short, regular one, merely a two-seater. There was no newspaper within reach. Then again, dreams are just a mishmash of memories - his mind had just fused together random images for the nightmare. The nightmare of realization. Longing. Loneliness. _Weakness._ Heero closed his eyes, shook his head hoping to remove the thoughts, took a deep breath and another sip of coffee. So focused on this he was, that he didn't hear the approaching footsteps on his left. The first thing he registered, was the voice. An uncertain, nearly frightened one. 

"Uhm... Hi, Heero." 

Heero froze, eyes flared open. He recognized the voice. He recognized the voice, not only in reality, but realized it was the same as in the dreams. He put the cup down, turned to face the one of his dreams. And it was, he remembered it all now - and he knew what was coming, before the words were uttered. 

"I... I love you." 

Within he could hear a thousand voices, a thousand different ways he could react. He picked out only one; the voice of his first mentor. _Live by your emotions._ And he did. Heero stood up, ran over and wrapped his dream lover in a crushing embrace. The manifestation of his dreams was at first shocked, surprised - but soon turned happy, relieved. Heero's chin sought out a shoulder, and as it found rest there, Heero closed his eyes, smiled - and cried. 

  
  
  
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Another substandard piece of scribbling put out for the world to mock. Any thoughts? Any and all feedback appreciated, as always - and thanks for reading. 

  
  
  
  
  



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